Ode to Bagels or Why Karma is Really Weird

So it's winter in New York. Usually, that means extremely unpredictable, sometimes chilly weather. But, now, the temperatures have dropped into the teens and stayed that way. That definitely doesn't make me happy.

What also doesn't make me happy?

Having to get up at 6:30 to go to Bronx Supreme Court. In the cold. Cause it's cold - have I mentioned that?

But now, with the wisdom of experience, I realize that I should have just been happy with that. Cause things...well...

Okay so it started when my hubby dropped me off at the LIRR and I took a nice, long nap to Penn. Then both my trains came quickly.

And I thought, "Hm, that was too convenient. I'm going to pay for that later."

Because karma. (Yes I know that's not really how karma works. Just pretend with me for a second.)

So I get to court, relatively quickly dispose of one case and sit down to email the office so that I can go to the next courtroom.

Unfortunately, that's not what the universe has in store for me.

Nope. What the universe decides I need is a nice loud fire alarm drill.

As you may or may not know, I'm sensitive to loud noises. Having to listen to a fire alarm is like having fire heated metal stakes driven into my ears. (Go ahead, take a moment and picture that.)

But you know. Now I can hope that this was my punishment for morning travel efficiency and all will be well now.

But not so, my darlings, not so!

Because some very loud lady thought the best way to advertise her end of times ministry radio show was by loudly preaching about Jesus and what was I'm pretty sure a very retelling of some Old Testament stories. From Yankee Stadium to Columbus Circle. Luckily for someone who isn't me, she managed to hit whatever pitch it is that makes me insane. (Please see "hearing sensitivity" above.)

As you know, normally I ignore annoying train behavior and then tell you all about it. But today... today...  I swear if she said "my friends" one more time...

I actually seriously debated telling her that I'm neither her friend nor do I have any personal interest in Jesus but rather I'm totally into demon worship and human sacrifices. But then she'd probably have preached at me more. ...which I'm not even sure is possible but still. Never engage the crazy.

And, of course, getting away from her blather meant I'd get stuck on the C just one stop away from my destination long enough to miss my train. (And thus have to wait for an hour for the next one.)

Okay but now...now the karmic kickback had to be over. Right?

Wrong.

Apparently today is my day to be afflicted by strangers.

I just wanted a goddamn butted garlic bagel. Instead what I got was an everything bagel with a side of weird, creepy dude hitting on me. No, strange man, I'm definitely not interested. Ever. (Although, for the record, the bagel was amazing. It was simultaneously airy and chewy and perfectly buttered. If only it was garlic...)

And then, because assaulting my ears just isn't enough, a lady approached me in the LIRR waiting room to ask me about participating in a perfume survey. Did I mention that, in addition to being hearing sensitive, I'm also allergic to any scented products?

You're not funny, universe. You're not.

All I can say is... please help! Send SWAT! The Seals! I don't care.

I'm going to go home and lock the fucking door.

Vixen out.

Tourists

Dear tourists,

Thank you for visiting our fair city and spending your money here.

However I feel it is only fair to let you know this: while New Yorkers are well accustomed to all kinds of strange sights and don't stare at weird people,  we do in fact notice when you make a ridiculous pose for pictures smack in the middle of the street. We notice and we judge you.

Love,

Vixen

Winter Malfunction

Snow is not an old coat that NYC pulls on and wears comfortably. For a city that moves at the speed of the rabbit rather than the turtle and never stops, snow is anathema - it slows everything.

And yet all I can do is compose the following letter;

Dear tear ducts,

I'm aware of your bizarre propensity to moisturize my face whenever temperatures start to dip below forty degrees (although I strain to understand it and have never reached enlightenment). But it's snowing. Don't you think there is enough frozen liquid around here?

No love,
The person you're attached to who you're possibly trying to murder with impaired vision.

Square peg round hole?

Dear travelers,

When trying to manage luggage on public transportation, please check whee the elevators and escalators are in advance. Holding up everyone while you try to drag two suitcases down the narrow stairwell to the LIRR platform is not very polite. Not to mention the feet you trample on and the hideous thumping noises your luggage makes as you trample down the steps.

And it makes me want to explode your heads with my mind powers and rescue those poor innocent suitcases from your abuse.

No love,

Me.

Glaceau fruit water

"Tasty bubbles, zero calories."

And nasty fake sweetener aftertaste. I'm not falling for that again.

How Things Get Worse

So after I posted the entry earlier about the LIRR, I am fairly certain that LIRR then conspired with other evil entities to vividly demonstrate that things can in fact get worse.

Can things be worse than an hour playing kneesies with a stranger?

Oh yes.

Sit back dear reader and listen (err...read) my tale of woe.

It begins yesterday when vixen!grandma (and yes she is a vixen - just ask those Nazis that she shot when she was fourteen) called one of those NYC agencies that provide transport to people with Medicare to make a reservation for vixen!grandpa's appointment with his doctor in Manhattan today.

Now while grandma is in fact a vixen and her English skills are kind of functional face to face, they're only as functional as you'd expect from someone who came to America in her 60's ((if you didn't know, vixen!family moved to the US from Ukraine some decades ago). So she waited on hold for a half hour to get a Russian speaker (if you didn't know, Ukrainian expats mostly speak Russian, because, USSR) in order to book the reservation. But she is patient and wily and she got her way. Or so we thought.

Today, dear reader, your very own delightful narrator went to go with grandpa to the doctor. We're all much happier when he doesn't go places alone. Sure, he shot lots of Nazis in his youth but it's been a few years since then.

Anyway, here I was, expecting a transport at 11:30am so we could get to the doctor before the 1:45pm appointment. These transports tend to take on multiple passengers so we build in time.

But...

11:30 goes by. 11:40 goes by. 11:50 goes by. I hear faint cackling in the distance. LIRR, is that you?

We call the transport. The transport says, no dice, the agency never gave us a reservation. We call the agency. Magically after I give them the information I get put on a verrrrry looooong hold. So either they forgot me or they done screwed something up and are frantically trying to fix it. It was the latter, just for the record. They found it, the transport is coming around 12:30 and everything should be okay.

The transport company calls and confirms too = 12:30-12:45.

Okay no problem. It's going to be a little tight but we are a vixenish family. We can totally handle that. See, Nazis.

Well... 12:30 comes and goes. 12:40 comes and goes. 12:50 comes and goes. The cold feeling of fate begins to stroke my back in reassuring, soothing lines - don't worry, vixen, you're screwed, no sense in trying now. Erm, thanks, fate? Love you too? Go kick someone else in the shin?

Yeah. No. We finally get on the transport at 1pm. Now we're down to less than an hour and there are three other people in the van. No, this is okay, we can do this! We can! Because, Nazis!

Then the van starts wandering around Brooklyn. To be honest? I have no idea where we went to drop off those people, I just know it was out of the way. The argument the driver had with the passenger who wanted to be dropped at the door did not help. The time spent on that took longer than the actual drive to drop her where she wanted. Efficiency fail? Oh you ain't seen nothing yet, beb. Nothing at all.

It is now 1:30. Remember, that appointment we had? Yeah, in fifteen minutes and we're still in Brooklyn. As I call the doctor's office and beg them prettily to take us half an hour late - the driver's estimation of our ETA - and they generously tell me to get here before 3pm just when the driver gets a call from dispatch. And dispatch? Yeah, an evil minion of LIRR. And fate. No no don't go to the highway, go local and pick up that other passenger. It would be more efficient. OH FICKLE EFFICIENCY!

For the record? Not efficient at all.

We finally pick up the passenger and off we go. Slowly. Like molasses. Slooooowly running down the table. Actually I'm pretty sure molasses are faster. Every red. EVERY GODDAMN RED.

Let me remind you = we have to be at the office before 3pm. Or all this suffering is for naught. FOR NAUGHT!

And then, I begin to detect a strange smell. A strange awful smell. And the driver turns around and goes, what is that smell? That strange awful smell?

Well, dear readers, let me tell you what that strange awful smell was: the new passenger found some delightfully fresh dog excrement with her foot. And then shared it with the floor of the van. Which shared that smell with all of us. Injury? Insult? LIRR? You decide.

All I can tell you it was about an hour with that smell lingering in the transport and my soul slowly withering away. But we did make it to the doctor's office before 3pm - 1 minute before 3pm.

Yes. Watch out, LIRR. Watch out. Because, Nazis.

Middle is mediocre?

Dear lirr,

I'm not sure what you were trying to do with those middle seats in the all blue trains. Give both facing seats in every car via inept engineering? Provide togetherness for groups? Enforce love and peace for strangers?

I don't know.

What I do know is that, while those seats are perfectly fine for people who know each other, for everyone else it is an extremely awkward way to get close to someone in a way they couldn't do without sharing womb space.

I am only child for a reason.

I don't like bumping feet and knees for an hour with a person I have never met and never will meet again. I mean they didn't even buy me dinner first! And here we are interlocking legs.

And maybe, lirr, you're into that. That's okay. I support your right to define your own sexuality.

But I'm married. So I'd like to keep my sexual favors to my husband.

Thank you.

Displeased vixen